It was amazing how something as mundane as supper could be transformed into a thrilling activity when shared with one’s new husband.

Sitting at a cozy table by the fire, in a suite that the innkeeper had declared his “verra best,” Emma studied Alaric as he sipped his wine. He’d changed into a black brocade dressing robe, his throat bare, his midnight hair curling and damp from his bath. They’d both cleaned up after arriving at the inn an hour ago. A half hour before that, they’d pledged themselves to each other over an anvil in a ceremony as short as it had been sweet.

Now Emma was officially Mrs. Alaric James Alexander McLeod.

And also the new Duchess of Strathaven.

Picking her hand up from the table, her new husband rubbed his thumb over her plain gold wedding band, clearly pleased with the sign of his possession. As he wore a wider masculine version on his hand, a symbol of her claim, she had no complaints.

His eyes a beautiful smoky jade, he murmured, “Had enough to eat, pet?”

“I’m stuffed to the gills,” she said truthfully. The remnants of their feast—roasted venison and Scotch pie, potted haugh and assorted local cheeses, raspberries topped with whipped cream—still lay on the table before them. “The innkeep sent up enough to feed an army.”

“He wanted to make sure we keep our energies up.”

Alaric’s slow, wicked smile made Emma’s cheeks warm, her heartbeat quickening.

“I don’t expect stamina will be a problem,” she said.

During their speedy two and a half day journey to Gretna Green, they’d been alone together in the mail coach Alaric had procured exclusively for their use. The drivers and guards up top had made the situation less than private, however, and Alaric had insisted on being circumspect.

They had spent most of the time talking instead, sometimes about lighter topics such as their favorite foods—Scotch pie (his) and almond tart (hers)—and places they’d been and wanted to go. They’d also discussed weightier subjects. She’d talked about the poverty she’d known as a girl, the ever-present fear of an empty larder or rent past due. She’d shared her deepest joys, too: being part of a family that stuck together through thick and thin, that valued laughter and each other more than worldly things.

For his part, Alaric hadn’t disclosed his past as readily, yet he’d answered her questions, giving her sufficient detail to piece together a lonely childhood and an adolescence overshadowed by his illness. She’d already known that his mama died when he was young. From the little he said about his father and his guardian, she gathered that neither was a nurturing sort. When it came to his aunt, he spoke with distant appreciation for all she’d done for him.

He was more willing, however, to speak of the time after his guardian’s death. Upon receiving a small stipend from the Strathaven estate, he’d invested it, parlaying it into tuition and living expenses at Oxford. After his studies, he’d continued to accumulate wealth through his investments; he’d been on his way to building a financial empire when, one by one, the heirs to Strathaven passed away, leaving him to succeed as duke.

At eight-and-twenty, Alaric had inherited an expensive castle, ill-managed estates, and little income to maintain the properties. With his business acumen, he’d turned things around, invested in modernization. During his tenure, he’d refilled the Strathaven coffers and brought prosperity to his lands.

Emma hadn’t known this side of Alaric: the hard-working man beneath the jaded aristocrat. It made her admire him even more. The journey to Gretna Green had fostered further closeness, and Emma had no doubt that they belonged together. As a result, she was more than ready to explore and deepen their physical intimacy. To give herself to her husband, body and soul.

Alaric pushed his chair back, patted his thighs. “Come here, pet.”

With prickling excitement, she obeyed. She wore nothing beneath her pink flannel robe and thus could feel the taut sinew of his thighs, the ridge of his growing arousal. He kissed her softly, and she sighed, drinking in the taste of him sweetened with mulled wine. They sipped at each other, tongues lapping and twining, a kiss of tender lust.

He loosened the belt of her robe, parting the panels, and she blushed as he gazed upon her bared self with raw possession in his eyes.

“Look at you,” he said. “So beautiful and you’re all mine. You trust me, Emma?”

“I do.” A thrilling echo of the words she’d used to commit herself to him forevermore.

“Say you’ll let me do whatever I wish. Say you’re mine,” he commanded.

Her breath hitched as he cupped one breast, giving it a proprietary squeeze. She understood the importance of these words to him, a man who’d been betrayed by his first wife. Who’d been alone for so much of his life.

Was it any wonder that Alaric needed certainty—that he needed her?

“I’m yours,” Emma pledged. “To do with as you wish.”

The familiar, exhilarating freedom soared within her, and she saw his nostrils flare, his pupils darkening with excitement. When it came to lovemaking, she needed to let go as much as he needed to be in control. They were a perfect match.

Reaching to the table, he dipped his finger into his wine goblet. Her breath grew choppy as he painted the cool liquid over her nipple, circling the areola, teasing it to a hard peak. Her neck arched as he bent his head and tongued the pouting bud. The sensation shot straight to her center, and her pussy dampened in a warm rush.

“You like that,” he murmured after lavishing the same attention on her other breast.

“Yes,” she sighed.

“Did it make you wet?”

Blushing, she nodded.

“Show me.”

She blinked.

“Touch yourself, darling,” he said huskily.

He took her hand and placed it between her thighs. Her pulse raced as their joined fingers combed through the plump folds, which were very slick indeed. He guided her touch upward, to her hidden knot, circling and stroking until a moan broke from her lips. Her embarrassment faded to the hot sensuality of their combined touch.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he crooned. “Frig yourself for me. Make yourself come while I suckle your pretty tits.”

Supported by his arm, her spine bowed as his tongue swirled her nipple, erotically mimicking what her fingers were doing down below. It was outrageous, depraved ... deliciously so. Her touch grew faster, the pressure inside her building as he went back and forth between her breasts, sucking and lapping. When his teeth grazed a sensitive peak, pleasure exploded, and she cried out his name.

He swept her up in his arms, his kiss soothing and sweet while her lungs pulled for air. He sat her down on the edge of the bed and removed her robe and his own. Despite the aftermath humming in her veins, her belly grew molten as he stood before her, his body revealed to her in its magnificent entirety for the first time.

He might have been carved from marble, so perfectly rendered was his form. The firelight licked over his muscular shoulders and hard-paved chest, the rippling ridges of his belly. His hips were taut and hollowed, girdled by a prominent vee of muscle. Everything about him—from the dusting of dark hair over sleek sinew to his enormous erection—radiated flagrant virility.

“You put a statue to shame,” she said in wonder. “You’re so beautiful, Alaric.”

His lopsided grin was surprisingly boyish. “You shouldn’t flatter me so. Such encouragement might go to my head.”

“I think,” she said, aiming her gaze at the swollen tip of his cock, “it already has.”

“What a naughty minx I married,” he said with a husky laugh.

“May I touch you?”

“Aye, lass. Put your hands on your husband.”

Since he was standing and she perched on the mattress, all she had to do was reach out. Wrapping both hands around his thick stalk, she pumped reverently, reveling in having all that masculine power contained within her palms.

“The way you touch me—it’s so bluidy good.” Arousal stained his cheekbones, deepened his lilt. The dew that leaked from his cockhead was further evidence that he was speaking the truth.

“I love touching you,” she confessed.

“Ach, I can’t take much more of this.” He groaned, his hands sliding into her hair, guiding her head toward his turgid shaft. “Make it wet, darling. So it will fit more easily into your tight little cunny.”

She eagerly did as he instructed. Tonguing his cock, she lubricated its steely length. When she arrived at the bulging crown, she parted her lips, taking him deep, and his breath hissed through his teeth.

His hands tightened in her hair, stilling her. “That’s enough. Lie back now and spread those pretty legs for me.”

His lordly command sent flames of desire licking over her skin. She obeyed, placing her head against the pillows. He knelt between her thighs, and her bosom surged with anticipation—and just the tiniest smidgen of anxiety—as the broad head of his cock lodged against her vulnerable flesh.

* * *

Alaric looked upon his Emma and knew how Ares must have felt when gazing upon Aphrodite. Desire. Covetousness. Fierce possessiveness tempered by an equally fierce dose of tenderness. Yet Ares, that wretched Olympian, could only claim Aphrodite as his lover for she’d been wed to another god. Emma, on the other hand, was all Alaric’s, and he would never, ever let her go.

He told himself that he’d done the right thing in eloping with her. In giving in to her sweet request. Why delay the inevitable? Now she belonged to him, and the torment of waiting was over. His cock strained to make the ultimate claim, yet first he had to be sure his duchess was ready to take him.

Taking his rigid member in hand, he teased them both by running the burgeoned tip through her damp petals. He groaned at her lushness, her cream coating his head. Withdrawing, he found her opening with his fingers, eased his middle digit inside. Her little passage clenched him immediately.

“You’re delicate, pet.” He fingered her, drawing out her wetness, not wanting to hurt her. “It might sting a little at first.”

“I’m not afraid. I want you, Alaric,” she said steadily. “Come inside me.”

Unable to hold back any longer, he lowered himself onto her giving softness, notching his cock to her slit. He pushed slowly between her dewy lips. A strangled sound left him at the snug fit, the decadent squeeze of her virginal sheath around his invading cock. She stiffened beneath him, and it took all of his willpower to hold still, to not thrust all the way home as his every instinct clamored to do.

“Sweeting?” he said, looking into her eyes.

“It feels strange,” she said breathlessly. “Is the fit always this ... tight?”

Perspiration misted on his brow as he battled for control. “’Tis only because it’s your first time. You’ll get used to me.”

“Are you, um, all the way in yet?”

He looked down—a mistake. The sight of their joined bodies, of her pretty pussy stretched around the thick meat of his shaft nearly undid him.

“About halfway,” he managed. He was definitely overestimating, but he didn’t want to frighten her.

“Halfway?” she said with clear dismay. “You’re too big.”

At the mention of its size, his vain beast puffed up even further. “You’ll adjust to me in a moment,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Try to relax, pet.”

“Maybe if I move a little ...”

Before he could dissuade her, she tipped her hips up, the motion making him slide deeper into her heat. She gasped; he groaned at the torturous pleasure. His cock was halfway buried in the hottest, tightest quim he’d ever had—and he couldn’t move.

“It doesn’t sting as much now,” she said. “Can you try again—but go slowly?”

He wanted to sing Hallelujah with the angels.

“Aye, pet.” He rocked his hips. “Whatever you want ...”

He moved back and forth carefully. Seeing that she didn’t show any signs of pain, he went a little deeper the next pass and the next. He could feel her flowering around him. She let out a sigh, her lushness surrounding him, gripping him. Lungs burning, he finally sank himself to the hilt and held.

“How is that, darling?”

Her eyes were heavy-lidded. “Mmm, quite ... nice.”

“We’ll have to do better than nice,” he said huskily.

Leaning down, he suckled her nipple as he began moving again. When she moaned, her hands tangling in his hair, he knew her discomfort had passed. He quickened his thrusts, groaning as her hips began to accompany his movements, lifting naturally, perfectly, to take him even deeper. When her head began to toss restlessly on the pillow, he gripped her soft bottom and plunged, angling his prick to graze her pearl, grinding against the sensitive peak. Over and again, he did this, circling his hips, using the unyielding root of his cock to maximize her pleasure and ratcheting up his own in the process.

He was wild for her, a hair’s breadth from spending harder than he ever had in his life. She writhed against him, their bodies straining together, slick with sweat.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped.

“That’s it,” he rasped, increasing the ferocity of his thrusts. “Spend for me. I want to feel you come around my cock.”

“Alaric.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Christ, you’re milking me so hard I can’t—”

His climax roared over him. Waves of heat boiled up from his balls. He shuddered with ecstasy as his seed jetted hotly inside his wife, as her fulfillment wrung him of his own.

Afterward, he rolled them both onto their sides so that they faced each other, their bodies still joined. He kissed her forehead and ran a possessive hand over her hip.

“How do you feel?” he said softly.

“Wonderful.” Eyes dreamy, she whispered, “I love you, Alaric.”

He went still. Even as wild wings of pleasure beat in his chest, an equally strong panic set in. The past bared its feral claws, humiliation gutting him as he recalled the times he’d spoken of love, how Laura had wrung countless such professions from him. How desperate he’d been for her affection and how in the end it hadn’t been enough. How he hadn’t been enough.

You’re a selfish bastard. You’re not capable of love—or deserving of it.

Sudden anger chilled his insides, banishing the afterglow. He’d been clear with Emma, honest from the start. She couldn’t expect his love when he had none to give, and lying would only make matters worse in the long run.

Suspicion pierced him. Does she think she can manipulate me? Because she convinced me to elope with her, does she think she has me wrapped around her finger?

That misconception had to be nipped in the bud.

“Thank you, pet,” he said coolly, “but it isn’t necessary.”

The lazy contentment in her eyes faded. A myriad of emotions flitted across her face, and he tensed for the inevitable backlash. For the accusations and tears.

After a moment, she laid a hand on his jaw. Her eyes steady and clear, she said, “I know.”

When she said nothing else, profound relief trickled through him. She wasn’t trying to ambush him, control him. Shame spurred his heartbeat, yet he didn’t know how to apologize ... so instead he kissed her. The ready sweetness of her response flummoxed him, and despite their recent coupling, desperate hunger rose in him again.

Tumbling her onto the pillows, he let his need take over, intent upon showing her that passion was enough to build a marriage on.

Because it had to be.